We've all heard the old "y'are what you eat" line, but how many of you have been able to gather visceral empirical proof of it?  I have, several times, but perhaps not so violently as tonight. 

I've long  suspected that I might be a sugar junkie, and like a true addict, I have tried to talk myself out of this hunch (and succeeded) again and again.  It was only about 6 months ago, after a month of strong suicide-ward tugs, that I felt ready to commit to an experiment in sugarlessness.  It really felt like a matter of life and death.  So I quit. And it sucked.  Sucked.  I think I shook for the first three days; had horrible headaches; was ravenously hungry. My throat hurt; my attention span shrank to the size of pygmy cashew.  I was cranky and sad and so tired, I actually fell asleep mid-conversation a couple of times.  This hell lasted for two weeks, getting worse and worse, until it got better. And better.  A month in, I felt and looked like some golden child of fortune.  My focus, energy, creativity, boldness, passion, and humor flocked back like Monarchs returning from Mexico after the winter.   I started to take notes for stories, and began drawing again. Instead of feeling locked outside of the books I read, I found myself inside texts again–totally surrounded and addressed. I was excited to leave the house most mornings, and had some peak experiences on the yoga mat.  In amazement and some distrust, I watched several things I'd thought of as "just part of who I am" fall away–the sarcasm, the constant low-grade hunger, the head rushes, the dark under-eye circles, the pms, the tired skin.  I fit into my size zeros again, and got hit on a lot, and laughed more than I have in years.  I slept better, and less, waking up without my sheets in a twist, without any fur on my tongue. My dreams were less fragmentary, and I remembered them.  I actually felt glad to be human, glad to be alive.

And then…I gradually strated sliding down the wagon, and then, bit by bit, fell totally off it.  Part of this is certainly down to the great Levaquin reaction, but the lion's share of it…there's something else behind it.  The strength of addiction, perhaps.  Or my fear at feeling so damn good and having no excuses not to go out and pursue the life I claim to want.

Thing is, I am starting to feel awful again.  So, there's nothing for it but wagon time. Of course, I decided to make tonight my farewell to sugar and just binged on the shit, in various forms (didn't have dairy but hit the gluten pretty hard, and so will probably have a pretty wretched day tomorrow).  The result?  I feel awful–tired, bleary, nauseous, and really fucking pissed. Totally irrational, actually. I'm at my boyfriend's right now, staying with his daughter while he plays hockey, and I actually feel hot with anger.  Anger over what?  Some slight mistruths he told me at the very beginning of our thing about his previous relationship (that is, he said nothing, when in truth, he'd broken up with this woman–a dumb, flashy, fat-assed, plastic-faced, guy smiley grinning, self-promoting D-list actress–only a few weeks before meeting me).  That was over a year and a half ago.  I'm over it.  He loves me, I love him, and she–needy, manipulative, greedy pain in the arse that she is–found someone to propose to her within the sixmonth. Ancient history.  Only, now, deep in sugar, I don't feel that way–I am furiously raking over these old coals and finding all sorts of things to feel blood-searingly pissed about.  How does a man go from loving someone like that (she actually scribbled a love note to my boyfriend which read: "You knew the minute you saw me that I kick butt.  I am the coolest chick ever!"), to loving someone like me? And her: she might be trashy and shallow and only modestly talented, but isn't she actually living a much more interesting life than I am, with her massive ego and ambition pushing her in five directions at any given moment? What a gift, never second-guessing oneself.

Ach.  This is sick.  I know it is.  I really need to kick this sugar all over again, starting now.  It's not going to be easy, but if I don't, I can't see winding up anywhere but a pine box.

In the meantime, I have to count to 1000.  Boyfriend just got home and he really doesn't deserve to find himself in a sugar shitstorm.  Arrrrgggggghhhhhhhh.


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